November 5, 1917.
Well ----[E]:
Here I find myself writing to you without waiting for the usual two
or three months to elapse. Do you realize that it was over five and a
half months ago that I left my native land? It doesn’t seem near so
long to me. Just at present I have about thirteen hours a day to write,
read the _Washington Star_ and _New York Times_, eat an occasional
meal (we only get two over here, worse luck), build fires in the stove
and stroll for exercise. The rest of the time is devoted to sleep. A
terribly hard life that of an aviator on the western front! No _appels_
(meaning roll calls), discipline or inspections. Only, if there should
happen to be a good day, one might be wanted to fly a bit. So far (I
have only been out here a week) we have had perfectly ideal aviators’
weather--nice low misty clouds about 300 or 400 feet up, which quite
prevent aerial activity and yet one is not bothered by mud or
depressed by rain. In the morning, one awakes, pokes his head out the
window, says “What lo! more luck, a nice light _brouillard_” and closes
the window for a few hours more of sleep. Really I have done more
resting the past week than most people do in a lifetime!
To get statistical, I finished up at Pau (from where I sent to you
a letter, _n’est-ce-pas?_) a month ago, and then spent two very
unpleasant weeks at Plessis-Belleville near Paris, at the big dépôt
for the front, waiting to be sent to an _escadrille_, with nothing to
do but a little desultory flying, nurse the system, food, weather,
lodging, discipline, etc. Eventually my turn came and, with another
American, I was dispatched to Esc. SPA 84, where we arrived after the
usual delay passing through Paris. That’s one nice thing about this
country: all roads lead to Paris. Sent from one place to another, it is
a safe wager that one goes _via_ Paris, and always takes forty-eight
hours there and gets permission for it if he can. There are a few
Frenchmen there still, but on the streets one sees almost entirely
American, British or British Colonial officers--occasionally a French
aviator and of course clouds of sweet and innocent young things--yes?
Nearly all of my classmates are over here and get to Paris every once
in a while, so all I have to do is to sit at the Café de la Paix and if
I wait long enough, some one I know will surely come along.
Well, to get back on the track, we eventually found ourselves members
of le-dit Esc. SPA 84--one esc. of a _groupe de chasse_, which means
that we will have patrolling work to do mainly and not protection
of observation or photo machines--which they tell me, is fortunate.
Also we have good machines--the best there are, which might not have
happened had we been sent to another type of _escadrille_--purely good
fortune. The much advertised Lafayette Esc. No. 124, is a member of the
same group, is located near us and does the same work, which makes it
much pleasanter for lone Americans. We use their stove and tea of an
afternoon quite freely as our quarters are new and not fixed up. But
say, when we do get going, everybody will be in to see us. We’ll have
a cosy, beautifully wallpapered room clustering around a stove.... The
men of 124 are a rather good crowd--not much different from any crowd
of Americans, a bit rough but most of it affected because they’re
away from home, very hospitable, rather daredevil or hard-hearted
(whichever you wish to call it--the way they talk about each other’s
narrow escapes, coming falls, the mistakes or misfortunes of departed
brothers, and there have been several) and very mixed, centering around
Lieutenant Bill Thaw, of the French Army, who impresses me as being
very much of a leader and an unusually fine type. There is one tough
nut from a Middle Western Siwash-like college, who was probably still
ungraduated at 27, and a quiet, innocent looking kid who seems to have
just got out of prep school; of course, the tough guy tears the little
one. Then there are a couple of old Légionnaires--rather superior and
terribly tired of war, quite unenthusiastic, but I dare say congenial
when one gets under their hide or fills it full of booze. And Jim
Hall, the author chap--quiet, reserved, almost simple in his lack of
affectation and boyish in his enthusiasm. (Gad, how he wants to get
his Boche and he almost thinks he did the other day, but it wasn’t
verified. He followed him down from 1,500 to 200 metres, shooting all
the time, and thinks he must have brought him down)....
Did I mention above that I am at present in the status, practically,
of a non-flying member? On arriving at the front, one is not rushed
straightway to the cannon’s mouth, but rather allowed to get acclimated
a bit first, to have a few preliminary voyages to look around, etc.
During my week here, there has been little flying and I haven’t even
seen the front, only heard the guns occasionally. Of my three flights,
two were just short _tours de champs_. But the other: never in my
wildest Blériot days did I do a wilder one. Coming from Pau where I had
tried some stunts, I thought I was a bit of an acrobat, second only
to Navarre, Guynemer and a few others. So arriving at a safe height,
I started to go through the _répertoire_. First came a loop which
got around to the vertical point--a quarter turn and then slipped,
ending in a vertical corkscrew or climbing barrel turn or whatever you
want to call it--then losing momentum and just naturally tumbling. I
didn’t know what was going on--only that it wasn’t right; they told
me afterward. After that came the _renversements_ and vertical turns,
etc., and not a thing came out. Lost--I got lost thirty times and
had to hunt all around to see where I was. Nothing went right and
I kept getting madder and madder and poorer and poorer. They were
all laughing down below and wondering what was going on up there.
Eventually the party ended--one of the old pilots told me that that one
flight equalled about thirty hours over the lines and the commander
advised against a repetition of the performance, and so I went and lay
down. Two hours later I began to feel that perhaps I could stand on my
feet again; did you ever have _mal-de-mer_?
So now I really ought to begin to learn something, having acquired that
all essential first knowledge of ignorance, which all good students
should have. And in the meantime perhaps I shall go and combat the Wily
Hun. Said W. Hun need not worry about my bothering him if he doesn’t
keep fooling around under my nose till I’m ashamed not to go after him.
I’m not bloodthirsty a bit, especially till I learn to fly, and the
lack of combats isn’t going to keep me awake nights for a while yet.
But the bunkmate seems to have gone to bed; it’s almost ten--a most
unprecedented hour for me to be up, so the end approaches. Kind
remembrances as usual--use your discretion and don’t forget that long
tale of “Washington Social Tid-Bits” you spoke of--gossip if you
prefer....
As ever,
STUART.
* * * * *
The Next Day.
Addenda:
Your letter on just arriving home has been with me some time and truly
brought joy to my heart in this desolate land. (The “desolate” seems to
fit in though not applying to the land in question at all.)...
Chester Snow is aviating under the auspices of the U. S. Government. I
last heard from him in a postal written on the last stop of the last
triangle of his brevet, so he should be through training before much
longer. The other Chester, Bassett, is still at Avord, so I can not
deliver your note to him....
Your other question referred to the army I am in, and is easily
answered by saying that the U.S.A. has as yet done nothing but talk
about taking us over. “Us” now refers to upward of 200 Americans, I
think, either in French _escadrilles_ or well advanced in the French
schools. Constantly all summer, we have been “going to be transferred
in two weeks.”
Another quiet, non-flying, slightly rainy day has passed. This isn’t
perhaps the most ideal spot in the world for a winter resort, from the
point of view of comforts, but, considering the ease of conscience
because one is not in the position to be called _embusqué_, it is
really not half bad. It’s starting to rain again rather harder; I
wonder if the roof will keep out water?
Yours, etc.,
B. S. W.
[Illustration: WAR CROSS WITH PALM, AWARDED IN RECOGNITION OF WALCOTT’S
SERVICES]